Indefinite Epilogue
by Yxonomei
Summary: A surreal journey into a mind broken and healed by cold hands. (Slash, surreal, dark, one-shot, TRxHP)


Disclaimer: I don't own the rights to the Harry Potter Series, which solely belong to J.K. Rowling, et al, but that hasn't stopped me from writing about them.

**Note: I will not accept any flames, however, comments and criticisms are welcome. I am under the assumption that anyone reading this has a clear understanding of the difference between flames and criticisms so I don't have to explain it. Here are some reason why I don't accept flames: **1) **they generally include an attack on the author's character without regard to previous or future works that may or may not be in the same vein, ****2) not only are they childish, but they make the writer of them sound immature and not old enough to read the material contained herein, ****3) flames help neither the author nor the flamer to improve the work and, therefore, are not constructive, ****4) if something is so offensive as to elicit the impulse to flame then it is better forgotten and not dwelled upon, ****5) you waste time writing it and I waste time reading and then deleting it, **6)** it won't do you any good to point out my lack of scruples, morals, intelligence, sanity, etc., because not only don't I care, but I won't listen.**

I anxiously await your opinions upon this. I would be most appreciative if you would allow yourself to withhold flames and show me a small measure of respect. 

This story was written based upon the first two lines, which have haunted my mind for several weeks now. I came upon them during a moment between wakefulness and somnolence. Since then I have wondered how to weave them into a piece of fiction. This story is a reflection of the surreal quality of waking-dreams. 

From Your Sight,

Yxonomei Ayauhteotl

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Indefinite Epilogue

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I dream of a place that rings with all the words that have been spoken, are being spoken, and will be spoken.

I dream of a place that echoes with all the words that have never been spoken, are never spoken, and will never be spoken.

I know of a man who is cruel because he is afraid, because he feels guilt.

I know of a man who is cruel because he cares, because he loves life. 

I am bound to a man who devours me alive, who is my transcendent drug, my addiction. 

And for all of this I left the diamond gardens that glitter with cold light and ephemeral warmth. I sank into the malaise of my soul and swam down till I touched the shell-strewn seabed. From there I walked across the ridges and small valleys; each footstep obliterated by falling particles, bits of dead animals and ancient plants, the horrors that skulk behind my failing eyes. I walked for two eternities and found nothing.

I found him after the third.

Imagine a cord of horrific, grotesque beauty coiling throughout your body and its extremities. This cord is yours alone; no one else may pluck it to make sweet or bitter music. And what happens when, by some fantastical catastrophe, another is allowed to caress and stroke and play this cord that contains and constrains you?

You shake apart with the discordant reverberations. I did.

But he, my creator, put me back together. Carefully he gathered all the bits of glass and paper and coal, and made me again. Arteries, veins and capillaries plump with dark wine. My lungs expand and contract upon each lubricious breath. He gave me no shoulders, not even my cracked ones of new pine, and so I bear no burden. He made my hands of cool marble and mother of pearl nails so I can grasp the fires that burn in men's hearts. He carved my body from his own rib and so made me his. He plucked stars from the heavens and pierced my eyes so that I would never be deceived. 

And finally he cut open my chest and replaced my faltering heart with a promise that is made of no words, that cannot be voiced or heard. Only he knows what this promise entails, and he keeps its consort and twin inside his own cage of bones. 

"Look at all the pretty pawns," my creator murmurs softly. Long fingers thread through my hair. "Each piece unknowing of the full scope of the game. Exquisite." Indeed, it is beautiful: the reds, blacks, greens and translucent whites. I prefer the reds; he likes the greens. 

Out across the floor stretches a field of contention. Tiny lights flicker and dissolve. It is the world, and it is slumbering. Billions of individual feathers glide about the surface. Most are white, a smaller number are red, an even smaller number are black and only four are green. 

I am green. So is my creator. The other greens are the cruel men. 

A small patch of lights suddenly brightens and then expires. All the white feathers burst into flame and disintegrate into ash. Four black feathers remain, shivering with excitement. He smiles coldly and turns his attention away. The feathers shrink to small dots. 

"There used to be more greens," he tells me idly as he focuses on seemingly random locations. Feathers grow and shrink with nauseating alacrity. I close my eyes and press my cheek against his thigh. His liquid chuckle rolls across me and gently strokes the cord of my being. 

"Ah! Look, lovely, a green one approaches." I watch a green feather break away from the side of another, both surrounded by a high concentration of reds and a few blacks, and approach the remaining two greens. 

I look up at him questioningly. He smiles indulgently and pats my head. 

"There is no need for concern. I think it is time that you are seen." A cool finger slides down the jagged flaw upon my brow and trails across the line of my nose to trace my lips. "Time, indeed." My creator laughs as some hidden amusement fills his mind. He waves away my look and together we await the arrival of the green one. Meanwhile, he returns to his gazing and plotting. I am content to close my eyes and simply exist. 

The distractingly high-pitched whine of Peter Pettigrew cuts through the room and bruises my ears. He announces the arrival of the green feather. My creator commands him to let the person enter. 

Time flows backwards and I am disoriented. Slowly everything cracks and falls down in shimmering showers. I see halls filled with innocently knowledgeable laughter. Small lives flicker across my vision. Faces, voices, emotions, all assault my spiraling consciousness. 

"Hush."

I tumble trembling from the embrace of time and lean against my creator's reassuring presence. His gentle hand pets me and teases the fragile cord that binds us. I calm and regard the known stranger with heavy-lidded eyes. 

The man hisses as his eyes observe me. He seems shaken. I don't think I have ever seen him like that, but I'm not too sure. There is so much that slips away, memories and experiences and such. I'm not too concerned, though. When I dream I always find that which has been lost to me since my rebirth. 

"My Lord?" his questioning voice hangs in the air. I imagine reaching out and plucking the words to crumble in my hands. 

"Indeed, my errant serpent, my viper," my creator purrs. 

"We—I thought he died at..." 

"You did? Hmm." He is not in a forthcoming mood. He seems to want to toy with the dark-haired man. 

[_Mr. Potter!_]

My creator is one of the few people who dares. I never did, I don't believe. 

"But he's been here all along?" The man seems momentarily distracted by the gravity of his musings. Dark eyes, piercing, penetrative eyes, bore into me. He is asking me a question I cannot divine. 

"Yes."

Where was I before? There was white and smiling faces of pity and kind words of pity. Pity and pity and more pity. And then everything was crimson and burning. 

I was broken, but that happened long before. Or did it? Past and present and future seem all the same. I am never entirely certain in which frame I dwell. All I know is that where my creator is, I exist for better or for worse. 

"They never did find anything. No bodies…Just bones and…" My creator's laugh slices through us all. I start, as does the man.

"Yes, all those poor innocents. The world is better without those…invalids. That should cut down on expenses, eh, my serpent?" 

An unreadable mask falls across the man's face. He looks…I don't know. I push thoughts about him aside. I dislike being bothered by things. Responsibility broke me. That's why...

My creator's cool hands slide down through my hair and rest upon my shoulders. I look up and meet his garnet eyes. He draws me to my feet, bare feet. I don't wear shoes. I remember the confining boundaries of leather and laces. I am glad to be rid of them. All I am required to wear is an overlarge, button-down shirt. The tails of the shirt fall to my knees and the sleeves descend past my fingertips. 

I am a child trying to be a grownup. I am pretending, but, then, so is everybody else. 

"Really, it was quite cruel of Albus to place him there." My creator snorts derisively. He motions for me to walk towards the known stranger. I obey wordlessly. "Quite sad. The papers had a field day. I imagine so did Fudge."

The dark-haired man is not listening. I can tell by the way his knowledgeable eyes remained riveted on my small form. I approach him cautiously with all the care of someone attempting to get close to a wild animal. 

"Harry?"

[_Mr. Potter._]

I look at him without comprehension. I offer him a genial smile. He seems disconcerted. I cannot imagine why. 

"As you can see, I have not been mistreating the child. I daresay he is far healthier under my tender mercies than those of his…relatives."

[_Boy!_]

I sway as sudden, inexplicable terror crawls out of my stomach. Everything is darkness—or was darkness? Again the eddies and currents of time and existence spin me off like so much primordial foam. I fall into a slow, downward spiral, back into the ocean where I have walked hand in hand with eternity. 

Warm hands arrest my descent. Time releases me with regretful sighs. I blink up at the man. I am limp in his grasp. His warmth wafts across my flesh. I had forgotten that another could be so warm. My creator is ice and the universe. 

I miss heat. I know this as I gaze into the dark abyss of this man's eyes. He is so warm, flushed with life, and I am so cold, always cold. 

From the feathered edges of dreams something spills forth. I feel it rise like a bubble through the passageway of my throat. It pops out and drifts insidiously into his ears. Those dark orbs widen momentarily, both with shock and, a moment later, understanding. 

"Kill me, please."

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End file.
